


dreaming with eyes open

by mintakablue



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: College AU, Eddie Kaspbrak Has OCD - Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, F/M, M/M, Reddie, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Temporary Amnesia, richie writes zines and eddie is a student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintakablue/pseuds/mintakablue
Summary: Since his fourteenth birthday, Eddie Kaspbrak feels like he's been dreaming with his eyes open. Now eighteen in the summer of 1995, he's decided to take summer classes at the community college--and runs into Richie Tozier, the guy who makes him feel like he's suddenly awake. He just wishes he knew why Richie seemed so familiar.Richie's been in a tough place for the last five years, but he's finally starting to get it together. When he meets Eddie Kaspbrak, it sort of seems like his whole life has been leading up to this dreamlike moment--even though he feels like it's happened before.Takes place in the It (2017) universe, they're just college-age now which means they've been in the process of forgetting each other for a while.





	1. Loves the Blues

_June 1995_

            For most, summer was the awaited paradise from school: the end of tedium, of dreariness, of repetition of numbers and essays that were due every other week. What did it matter that you could write a transitionary phrase, that you could square this and subtract that, that you could memorize facts? The only important fact was that it was summer and so nothing else mattered but that long (but still too short) delicious golden season. Summer was the end of boredom and the beginning of everything else.

            But Eddie Kaspbrak was not most people. Summer for him was more classes, piled up high like snow on Mount Everest. Subjecting himself to the freezing air conditioner in Derry Community College. And above all, trying to hide why from his mother.

            He’d never wanted to go through with being a business major; but it was a solid job, a reliable job, a job you could pick up here in Derry, Eddie sweetie, so just declare yourself a business major and run along to Husson. And when you finish school, Eddie, come run back home to mommy. He wanted to go out of state, wrote applications to New York and San Francisco and even some little town in Nevada—anywhere but Maine. Every letter back was a terse and now uncomfortably familiar phrase. We regret to inform you that you were not accepted. Now you’re stuck in Maine forever.

            Eddie drifted through his first semester, unable to take the reins on his own life. Helpless to stop himself from attending class, mechanically taking notes on graphs and stocks he couldn’t begin to understand. This was nothing new—this was how he got through high school, after all—but now he was an adult and he was supposed to have this all figured out, right?

            He would drive for a long time those days, down the grey asphalt, aimless but never lost—at least on the roads. But what _did_ he want with his life? He hadn’t really considered it, hadn’t really thought about his life much. Ever since he turned fourteen it seemed he had simply floated along, doing whatever people told him to. Something vital had been scooped out of him on November 4 th, 1989 (a birthday that hardly anyone attended). Since then, it seemed like he had been dreaming with his eyes open. Watching a film run its spool out, dark and shiny like a road wet with rain.

            Thoughts like that plagued Eddie as much as the illnesses his mother imagined did. And eventually, he couldn’t take it any longer.

            He changed majors.

            Blasphemy! Going against your own mother! Forging a new path! He had pondered it for a long time, shut up inside his room over winter break, a cocoon of thought. The things he loved doing, the things he yearned for wordlessly until now: to travel, to live, to drive on an endless road, to write. Eddie changed majors to journalism in the spring semester because it was what he wanted. And it had been a long time since he had done something he wanted.

            As good as it felt to choose the course of his life, it came with a caveat—a whole semester that could have been spent in media class or Journalism I he had wasted in business. He would have to take summer classes to catch up. But God forbid he tell his mother, who’d probably die on the spot if she knew he wasn’t following her plan for him.

            “Extracurricular?” Sonia Kaspbrak asked from the comfort of her chair in front of the television.

            “Yes, I’ll only be gone for a couple hours. I’ll be right back.” Eddie replied, keys in hand. “They’re so I can graduate faster.”

            “Oh, Eddie darling, you don’t need to push yourself to graduate. Take your time, have fun, spend all four years here!” She smiled graciously as if to say I’m doing this for you, Eddie.

            “It might be good to get my career going a little faster. Besides, they’re nearby. Just at Derry Community College, so I won’t be far.” He was so used to reassuring his mother these things that he barely registered the relief that broke across her wide face.

            “Okay. Be sure to keep your pager on.” She settled back in her chair.

            Eddie sighed. “I will. See you later.” And was out the door before his mother could go on about the dangers of driving near the college.

* * *

 

            As he pulled up in the parking lot, there seemed to be a commotion—strange for a college at 8:54 in the morning. He turned the ignition off and checked his watch (six minutes until his first dose of medication, twenty-five minutes after that and his class started) and decided he would see for himself what the fuss was.

            Whoever was in the center of small circle of people was practically yelling. “You’re telling me none of you music majors have even _heard_ of Weezer? Or Kansas? This is great stuff you’re missing out on, people, great stuff!”

            _Well no wonder, idiot_ , Eddie thought, _you’re talking to classical music majors and they probably don’t even know what a radio is._ He half-considered telling him that, until he turned around.

            Eddie was overcome with a jolt of familiarity. Like running through a crowd, searching frantically for someone, till you whirl around and find they’d been with you all along. It shocked him into a moment of clarity, and in that moment, he thought to himself—I’m awake. For the first time in a long time, I’m awake. So, let me take a look at this guy that’s done it.

             He had a thick pair of glasses, that was for sure. Behind those panes of glass were brown eyes, mischievous and owlish all at once. His dark curly hair stuck up in a million different places. He had probably rolled out of bed without taking a glance in the mirror or giving his appearance a second thought; his clothes were wrinkled but attempted to make up for it with their flashy designs—an attempt that had unfortunately failed. Clutched in his hand was a notebook which had scrawled on the front PROPERTY OF RICHARD TOZIER. And that name looked so familiar to Eddie: had he read something of his? Had he gone to school with him?

            “You agree, right? This is...crazy! Unprecedented! What kind of music do you like?” His eyes, swimming behind his glasses, locked onto Eddie’s as he jabbed a finger in his direction.

            Eddie’s throat tightened. _Did he need a puff or two or three on his aspirator or was that just his nervous habit again?_ “I…uh…I like the blues.” _Shouldn’t you know that? Except why would he know that?_

            “Loves the blues!” The music majors, sensing their chance to escape, inched towards the campus. “Can you believe it, this guy here loves the blues and I love rock-and-roll! What a fine pair, how do you do Mister So-and-So, I’m Richie Tozier and I’m writing for Rollicking Rock, your rock and roll zine for the real music lover! If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll read it when it comes out twice a month!” Eddie’s head spun. This Tozier guy sounded just like a radio announcer. “Now, what’s your name, kiddo?”

            “Eddie Turner Kaspbrak.” He put his hand out politely and Richie shook it with vigor, held on for just a second too long, leaving it a little bit sweaty. He wiped it delicately on his shorts.

            “So Eds, what are you doing here on this fine summer day, wasting away in college? What’s so important that it’s got you chained up here?” Richie leapt onto the front of a nearby car, leaning back without a care in the world.

            “Don’t call me Eds.” That sentence felt so natural to say, even though no one had called him Eds for a long time. “Anyways, I’m taking journalism classes. I usually go to Husson.”

            “Hey, hey, I’m a journalist too!” Richie slouched suddenly, jabbing his finger at Eddie again and taking on a New York accent, “Zines like ya wouldn’t believe, baby, I got zines everywhere.”

            Eddie laughed at Richie’s voice change, deciding that even if he was a little bit of a weirdo, he wasn’t so bad. “So I’ll see you in class then?”

            Richie straightened up. “Oh, no way man. I dropped out of here after my first semester, been going solo since then. I just work with a couple of people who like writing about interesting things like music and cryptids and shit.”

            Eddie couldn’t seem to mask the disappointed expression on his face, had never really been one for hiding his emotions. “Oh. I just thought--!”

            “Aw, cheer up, I’m sure you’ll find a friend in that class of yours. Besides, I’m here all day—gotta do a survey on taste in music. I’ll probably see you when you get out.” When he smiled sincerely like that, he seemed even more familiar.

            “I guess so.” He was still straining for whatever memory had Richie Tozier in it. “Well, I’ll see you ‘round, Richie.”

            “Later, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie laughed and called out. “Good one, huh?”

            “Yeah, yeah.” Eddie grinned a little bit in spite of himself. “But just call me Eddie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, eddie does show up to his class unusually early, that's just the kind of guy he is. also he's a scorpio!


	2. Cute, Cute, Cute

            Cute, cute, cute.

            Richie wasn’t much for calling people that except to get on their nerves, but it was the first thought in his head, the idea of boyishly yelling “Cute, cute, cute!” at the guy who had just entered his little interview circle. This was not particularly unusual for him, considering that his brain jumped around everywhere, but he decided to stick to the zine business and handle it from there.

            “What kind of music do you like?” (Good excuse, yeah, he’ll have to talk to you now. But don’t you know the answer already? He likes Elton John and the blues.)

            “I…uh…I like the blues.”

            (Lucky guess, Tozier.)

            “Can you believe it, this guy here loves the blues and I love rock-and-roll! What a fine pair, how do you do Mister So-and-So…”

            It all seemed like déjà vu, a song-and-dance he had done before. Maybe not this particular way, but he had this itchy feeling in the back of his brain like he knew who this guy was already. Or he was _supposed_ to know, but he couldn’t remember.

            He couldn’t really remember a lot of things. He jokingly blamed it on getting dropped on his head or something as a baby, but it was a combination of ADHD and a bit of a lazy temperament. Unless it struck him as interesting (video game combos, sightings of UFOs or cryptids, the most recent hits on the radio) he tended to forget all about them. There was a time, though—the fall of 1989, where all his memories from before then kind of went radio static. He had turned fifteen, went into his freshman year of high school, and then he fell on some difficult times.

            His mother and father weren’t particularly well-off to begin with, but mounting expenses meant they both took on extra jobs, which meant Richie was alone most of the time. This wasn’t so bad at first—what kid didn’t love an empty house that he could mess around in with his friends? The whole problem was he wasn’t so great at making friends.

            He’d known people before, that much was certain: attended someone’s Bar Mitzvah, rode bikes around the neighborhood, played in places that were probably a little dangerous for a kid to be in. But with who? And where were they now? Moved away, busy being Eagle Scouts, applying for colleges far away from little old Derry. So Richie spent a lot of his time alone, speaking into tape recorders and practicing his Voices, playing guitar and imagining himself a rock star. He spent a little bit of time trying to convince other kids to get into a Buddy Holly cover band with him, but no such luck.

            By the end of senior year, Richie went to community college because that’s what you were supposed to do. But he got miserable. Still alone as ever. High school again, but worse because they were all supposed to be adults and here was Trashmouth Tozier who never quite figured it out. He spent his classes writing stories and doodling in his notebook and decided, to hell with it, he’d try to do something with his gift for gab and fast talk. He’d go interview a couple people, make a little magazine or something, get people to buy it and read it.

            There were a couple others on campus (and off-campus surprisingly) who had already been in the business of making these things, so Richie dropped out in late fall of 1994 and started writing zines. And finally, he was doing something he loved.

            But there was something kind of hollow about working where everyone was sort of friends with you, but not really. They all worked on their own thing and so Richie was mostly alone again, in the company of co-workers but not _real_ friends, not the kind that went to the arcade with you or did dumb shit like jump off a cliff with you. Just people who you happen to know and work with.

            So when (cute, cute, cute—not the words you’d usually use to describe this short tight-lipped guy in the pink polo and khaki shorts, right?) Eddie Kaspbrak introduced himself in that familiar way, Richie shook his hand hard because he wanted to make an impression. He was meant to hang out with this guy, be friends with him, he felt certain of it—so certain that seeing Eddie’s face fall when he realized he wasn’t in class with Richie made his heart sink alongside it.

            “Aw, cheer up, I’m sure you’ll find a friend in that class of yours.” (But not a friend like me, okay?) “Besides, I’m here all day—gotta do a survey on taste in music.” (He didn’t _have_ to be there all day but now he wanted to see this Eddie, wanted to hang out with him, _needed_ to.)

            “Well, I’ll see you ‘round, Richie.”

            (Ding-ding-ding! Clever words coming up!)

            “Later, Eddie Spaghetti!” (That was chuckalicious, for sure.) “Good one, huh?”

            “Yeah, yeah. But just call me Eddie.” Richie was delighted to see a little grin creep its way onto Eddie’s face. Then, Eddie turned and walked onto the campus that Richie had dumped a few months ago. Richie checked the time briefly on his car’s clock—he knew most of the classes ran until about 11:30. It was 9:02.

            Boy, this was gonna be a bit of a wait.

* * *

 

            Journalism class wasn’t so bad, all things considered. It was the thing that Eddie wanted to do after all, but hardly anyone in the class took notice of him and they were all much older than he was. Echoes of high school, honestly. He dimly recalled reading books in his room, listening to the radio as he tuned up his car, but beyond that—nothing of note in the halls of Derry High School.

            But now he was awake, no longer in that stupor of adolescent youth. And it bothered him that he was still unable to talk to people. All class long, he drummed his fingers back and forth, tapping out rhythms in threes, wondering why he was still sitting alone.

            It was a relief, in that sense, to leave the freezing classroom and walk out into the warmth of the summer. Equal relief to see Richie, now pestering another group of students who had left their classroom.

            “Would you stop bothering them?” Eddie grinned, punching him on the shoulder like they were already old friends. “They’ve probably got better things to do than hang out with a dropout.”

            Richie easily wrestled Eddie under his arm and ruffled his hair. “But you don’t, huh?” Eddie shoved back with a laugh.

            One of the students had his eyes locked on the two of them. “Richie? Eddie?” A smile broke out across his face. “You guys remember…?”

            They both turned to look at who had spoken: a tall and handsome man with short curly hair and well-pressed jeans. “Husson University” was emblazoned across his shirt— _you probably had a class with him, that’s why you recognize him._

            “Remember what, guv’nor?” Richie asked in a loud British accent.

            Eddie winced. “Geez, not right in my ear. Do I know you? I go to Husson too.”

            The man’s face fell. “Yeah. Uh, I’m a history major there. But I just thought that…well…”

            Suddenly, a waft of smoke began to leak from one of the older cars in the lot. The man jumped. “Oh damn, not again!” He started to hurry towards it, but doubled back around. “Listen, we should talk, okay? Both of you. Don’t forget.”

            As he hurried off, Richie called out, “You’re shit out of luck pal, I forget everything! Call me the Czar of Carelessness, the Duke of Distraction, the--!” Eddie socked him in the shoulder.

            “Can it, Richie.” _That didn’t sound quite right, but what was the phrase he was looking for?_ “It sounded like that was really important.” He bit his lip, another nervous habit, as he stared off at the man now buried in fixing up his car.

            “You know what is important?” Richie waved his notebook in front of Eddie’s face, startling him. “My results on this survey. Can you believe that so few people know _real_ music? Only you and a couple other guys said they liked the blues, for Christ’s sake!” He threw a hand over his glasses in mock agony. “Oh, the humanity! Rock and roll is dying out!”

            “Yeah, yeah.” Eddie replied absentmindedly, checking his watch again. “Look, I don’t have another class today, but I don’t have anything else to do.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you maybe…wanna do something?”

            “No way Jose.”

            Eddie’s nose wrinkled in displeasure. “Okay, whatever.”

            “Let’s do lots of things!” Richie giggled boyishly. “Get it, you said ‘something’, I said ‘lots of things’, that’s why—!” Eddie, at a loss for words, rolled his eyes.

            “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” Eddie whirled his keys around his finger deftly. “Where do you wanna go?”

            “Lead the way, good sir.” Richie bowed comically. “You can just bring me back around here when we’re done. I’m not much for driving anyways. Take me on an adventure, would you?” He batted his eyelashes.

            Eddie snorted, then unlocked his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still kind of figuring out how to write their voices--i think it's actually easier for me to write richie than it is to write eddie pfft.


	3. Diet Coke-Head

            If someone was asked to describe Eddie Kaspbrak in one word, it would probably be “delicate” (if you asked his mother), “uptight” (if you asked his classmates), or “awkward” (anyone who saw him walking down the street). “Confident” would not be the first to come to mind.

            It was a heady shot of confidence that overcame Eddie when he spoke again to this stranger he halfway recognized. Asked him to hang out, somehow convinced he would absolutely say yes. Now that he was in the car, that confidence seemed to have subsided, at least a little bit.

            “Where to, Eds?” Richie asked, putting his feet up on the dashboard. “We’ve got all of Derry and all day to spend! Let’s get to it, chop chop!”

            “Feet off the dashboard, first.” Eddie started the car as Richie relented. “And buckle in, too.”

            “Yeah, okay, _Mom_.” Richie buckled in. “Happy?”

            “I just don’t drive people around without seatbelts. You know 2,358 people died in car crashes last year? I’m not about to add to that statistic. And most of the people who die in those crashes don’t have seatbelts on, and I heard that here in Maine alone—!”

            “I got it, I got it. You’re killing me. Now let’s go!”

            It was odd driving with another person in the car. Though Eddie was extraordinarily cautious on the road, he was familiar enough with Derry to quietly observe his passenger, who was now fidgeting with his necklace. He chewed on the metal chain of it thoughtfully, watching the buildings go by.

            “That’s kind of unsanitary, you know.”

            “What’s it to you? You don’t have any nervous habits?” He ran the chain through his teeth with a _zzt_ noise.

            “I mean, I have a few.” Eddie glanced sideways. “Are you nervous?”

            Richie adjusted his glasses, now messing around with those instead of his necklace. “Well, I did just get in a car with a stranger. You could be an axe murderer or something.” He put his foot up on the dash, then remembering himself, set it back down. “Hey, you and I are around the same age—remember back a few years when there was that curfew? What was up with that?”

            Unknowingly, Eddie put a free hand up to his forehead and rubbed it tensely. “I don’t really know. A bunch of kids went missing or something.” He wanted very badly to shut his eyes and stem the dull throbbing that had begun in his head. “Fuck, I must be getting a migraine. Can you unzip my backpack and grab two aspirin for me?”

            “Sure thing.” Richie reached back and opened the bag. “Holy shit, do you just carry around a whole pharmacy? You might have more pills than my grandma takes.” He turned over a bottle. “Hydroxyzine?”

            “Hey, private stuff! That’s just for my allergies.” _And the OCD, but Ma doesn’t need to know that._

            Richie brushed off the first comment. “That’s funny. They had me on that for a little until they put me on Ritalin.” Richie knocked the top of his head. “ADHD, man. It’s a bitch.” He sat up suddenly. “Oh shit, I forgot to take my pills.”

            “You should set an alarm. That’s what I do.” Eddie lifted his hand to show his watch—not a terribly fancy one, but it beeped loudly and it did the job. “I mean, I don’t have ADHD but…the rest of the meds, you know.”

            “I don’t suppose you’ve got any Ritalin on you then.” Richie sighed. “Well shit, we may as well swing by the grocery store and get me a Diet Coke.”

            “You really shouldn’t be self-medicating you know.” _Look who’s talking, hypocrite._ “And diet soda’s really bad for you, they say it’s linked with dementia.” Eddie went uncomfortably silent.

            “Chin up, toots, you look so glum!” Richie had lapsed into doing another one of his voices. “I say, turn that frown upside down! You’ll feel better in no time!” He pinched Eddie’s cheek, which was rapidly growing red and warm.

            “Oh come on, quit it!” Eddie batted his hand away. “Besides, you know what would make me feel better? Those aspirin.”

            “Right, right. ADHD brain, remember?” He tapped his head again. “Okay, here it is.” Eddie scooped up two and swallowed them dry.

            “You know, dry swallowing pills is linked with all sorts of problems in the liver, and…” Richie trailed off, then snorted. “I’m no good at impersonating you.”

            “Offensive.” Eddie said, smiling all the same. They pulled into a parking spot at the side of the grocery store. “Okay, get your soda and we’ll find something to do after.”

            Richie was struggling to open his door, so Eddie popped it open for him. “Thanks, man.” Richie reached into his pocket—and then grimaced. “I think I forgot my wallet in my car.”

            Eddie quirked an eyebrow. “Are you…are you serious? Or are you just being a cheapskate?” He pulled out his own wallet anyways and began to rifle through his cash. “Look, I’ll spot you but—!”

            Richie came up behind Eddie and clasped his arms around his neck. “What a gentleman! What a fine gentleman, opens the car door for me, pays for my diet-coke addiction! Sounds like a date to me! Eddie Kaspbrak, what a star!”

            Eddie turned a bright shade of red at the mention of a date. “Get off me or we’ll both fall, idiot!” He wrestled his way out from underneath Richie. “Geez, do you know what personal space is?”

            “Never even heard of it.” Richie chuckled and started walking towards the grocery store, holding Eddie’s utilitarian black wallet in his hand.

            “Hey, that’s mine!”

            Richie turned around and winked, magnified by his glasses. “Come and get it!”

 _That would have been kind of cool_ , Eddie thought, _if he hadn’t dropped my wallet right after._ He walked up to Richie, who was now fumbling for the wallet on the ground. “Smooth, Tozier, real smooth.” He held it out to Richie.

            “Aw, you know you love me.” He replied, plucking the wallet out of Eddie’s outstretched hand. “Mind if I get a couple packs of cigarettes with this?”

            _This idiot went through my medicine and he doesn’t even know I have asthma._ “Just get the soda and we’ll walk, okay?”

            “Okay, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. richie got diagnosed for ADHD when he was 16, eddie is undiagnosed for OCD but he's had it since he was a kid.  
> 2\. PLEASE don't self-medicate y'all eddie and richie are bad examples  
> 3\. i think it's great when people write richie as a bad boy but to me he's so clearly a loser...a big ol Bisexual mess is what he is  
> 4\. i have OCD but i don't have ADHD so a lot of richie's behaviors are just things i've picked up from my friends who have ADHD. that being said, please let me know if there's anything i write that's off with regards to that--i don't wanna get it wrong!


	4. Kombat Scars

            Richie cracked open his can of soda with a satisfying hiss. (Best sound ever.) He guzzled it down, tipping his head backwards and bumping the far rim of it against his glasses, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

            “Do you always do that?”

            “Tastes better when you drink it faster.” (I always swallow fast—no come on, you don’t have to always go lewd.) He tried and failed to crush the can against his head. “Yowch!”

            Eddie snickered as Richie rubbed his forehead. “You’re gonna give yourself brain damage.”

            “Already done. Someone dropped me on my head as a baby.” (Classic, classic.) Richie replied as they passed by the arcade. He stopped in his tracks, then walked backward, much to Eddie’s amusement. “Hey, do you wanna play? Mortal Kombat 3 just got in. They say it’s great.”

            Eddie crossed his arms. “I get the feeling we’re a little too old to be in arcades.”

            In Richie’s world, there were a few unalienable truths in this world, and one of them was this—what better way was there to spend the first few days of summer than inside that manic whirling room of color and flashing lights? Like soda and sugar, things that usually made other people hyperactive made him able to focus a little bit better. And when he got into playing a game, he was in the _zone_. Sure, he did frequent the arcade a little more than most nineteen-year-olds, but he wrote about the games too, so it wasn’t all goofing off. Plus, he had high scores to upkeep.

            “We could always just take a walk around here, downtown’s pretty lively around this time. Check out the bookstore or whatever.” Eddie shrugged noncommittally, but glanced up to assess Richie’s face.

            “Poor Eddie, still stuck in the student mentality.” He got down on his knees. “And poor, poor Richie! Can’t go to the arcade, boo hoo, not without his knight in shining armor to pay his way through a round of Mortal Kombat!” He clasped his hands under his chin. “Come on, Eds, we got the whole day.” He pleaded.

            He shook his head. “Come on, you’re gonna get your jeans dirty.” (I can get you dirty—Richie, would you shut up?)

            Seemingly from nowhere, Richie procured his notebook. “You know I write zines on the new games too. You’ll be helping me with my job!” He scooted forward. “Please, please, pleaaaase!”

            Eddie snatched the notebook from his hand. “Hope your job makes enough to pay back how bad you’re gonna lose.” Richie jumped up, laughing, wrapping his arms around Eddie.

            “Yes!” He went into a southern drawl. “I looooove ya Eddie, I gosh darn do.” Eddie’s watch started to beep and Eddie, crushed against Richie’s chest, squirmed.

            “Hey, beep-beep, Richie. I gotta take my meds.” (Beep beep? Where had he heard that before?) Richie released Eddie, who picked out two white tablets from a dizzying array of pills.

            “You really do have a whole pharmacy.” Richie said wonderingly.

            Eddie tried to shield his pill box from view. “They’re mostly vitamins.” Richie put his hands up.

            “Okay, okay, no more peeking.” Richie gestured to the arcade. “Now, paradise awaits!”

            “Tozier, you don’t change, do you?” A sandy haired man with a stoic expression leaned against the open doorway of the arcade. Despite the dourness of his face, his eyes gleamed with a smile.

            “Stanley!” Richie jogged up to him. “Stanley the man-ley, here with a plan-ley!” (He’d stolen that from someone, but couldn’t quite recall who.) He put his hand up for a high five, which only earned him a cocked eyebrow. Richie put his hand down. “So what’s cooking, good-looking? I thought you were still doing Scouts.”

            “High school’s over, Rich. I’m just visiting from Ithaca for the summer.” Stanley grinned. “I already visited my old troop, I figured I should come say hi. And where else would you be but the arcade?” He wrapped an arm around Richie’s shoulder in a loose embrace. Then, he caught sight of Eddie, who quickly put a hand up in greeting, a tight-lipped smile on his face.

            “And you’re…” Stan looked at him for a second, tilting his head. “I must’ve seen you around, hardly anyone who lives here goes to Etna. You know Richie?”

            “Kinda.” Eddie, having quickly glanced at Stan’s face, went back to awkwardly studying the seams on his bag. “We just met up today.”

            “You’re too late, Stan, you’re being replaced. Best friend status revoked. Eddie Kaspbrak here’s my one and only.”

            Stan rolled his eyes. “Annoying as ever. You were like this all four years.”

            “Yeah, which is why you went away so often. Boy Scouts my ass, you just didn’t appreciate my gift.” To demonstrate, Richie spun around and slouched, putting his hand out in front of him. “Kids these days never appreciate the things I do for ‘em, that they do not.”

            That got a laugh out of Stan. “Eagle Scout takes a long time to get to, Richie, and it looks good on an application—unlike a recommendation letter from you.”

            “I wrote that from the heart!”

            “I didn’t send it.”

            The two of them chuckled in the easy way that old friends do, Stan patting Richie’s back heartily. “Got time for a game, Stan? Eddie’s paying.”

            It was Eddie’s turn to roll his eyes. “Okay, just because I offered to pay for you since you forgot your wallet,” (This earned a “Seriously?” look from Stan.) “it doesn’t mean you get to offer _my_ money.” Eddie turned to face Stan. “But if you really wanna play, I’ll pay for it.”

            A small but genuine smile shone on Eddie’s face. Stan beamed back at him. (Great, two boys you know and you’re already third-wheeling them. What’sa matter with you, Tozier? Can’t keep up? Or can’t keep it up?)

            “No, no, I can pay. I can pay for this pain in the ass too.” Stan eyed Richie. “Since he’s already lost his wallet for the eighteenth time. I kept count, you know.”

            “He didn’t need to know _that_!”

            “I kind of figured.” Eddie interjected. “You did say you were forgetful.”

            “Hey!”

            Stanley had entered the building, then gestured for them to follow. “Are we gonna wait around here all day? Or am I gonna have to wait longer to top your high score, Richie?”

* * *

 

            Loud carpets to rival a bowling alley’s, the sound of punching buttons and blips, and to top it all off, the glow of three dozen consoles just waiting to be played. Yes, Richie was in his element. He popped open his notebook and jotted down that that they had moved his old favorite, Street Fighter, to the back to make room for Mortal Kombat 3. (The cruel passage of time and oh, how it flowed. Shit, he could be a poet.)

            The two others had gone to change their dollars into quarters. Eddie went slightly on tiptoe to feed his money into the machine, which Stan did with no problem. They seemed like they were getting along decently, for two people who had just met.

            (But hadn’t you just met Eddie? And didn’t you feel pretty comfortable around him?)

            In truth, it had been a long time since Stan and Richie had seriously talked or hung out. Probably not since sophomore year, which was when Stan started getting busy with Scouts, painting benches and cleaning parks or whatever you did. But since they lived so near each other, they always caught sight of one another on the way home, exchanged a couple words before one of them had to run off. (When you come home, you’re looking for a little nostalgia.) Richie thought.

            Stan strode back to Richie, Eddie following close by. “Alright, we put in five dollars, so two games of Mortal Kombat 3 and then one other game for the winner.” Stan lined up the quarters on the edge of the machine. “Me and you, Eddie. Let’s battle it out.”

            “Uh-huh.” They took their places at the joysticks while Richie sat in the chair of one of the racing games. “Geez, the screen is filthy.”

            “Agreed.” Stan buffed it with his sleeve to no avail. “Alright, that was a lost cause.” He sighed in mock frustration. Eddie’s mouth quirked up at the corner and he fed eight of the quarters into the slot.

            Richie leaned back and wrote a few more notes on Mortal Kombat (gameplay and flow, how it held up to other fighting games, advancements in graphics) and ended off with a flourish. The rest of his review would have to wait until he played for himself. Eddie seemed to be losing quite badly to Stan, who Richie could probably beat with his glasses off. Slightly exasperated, Eddie threw his hands up in the air.

            “You know what, I think this—these buttons must be broken.”

            Stan nudged him. “Don’t be a sore loser, man.” His eyes trailed over to Richie, who was locked, staring at Eddie’s palm. “Rich, what’s up?”

            (There was a scar there, white and thin but there anyways and it looked just like the scar on Richie’s hand. Just like the scar on--)

            “Stan, hold out your hand.”

            “What, you’re gonna read my palm with your shit vision?” Stan relented though, his arm straight and strong as he extended it.

            (Just like the scar on Stan’s hand.)

            Richie grabbed Eddie’s hand and brought his and Stan’s together, examining them closely from underneath thick glass. There was an uncomfortable silence and Eddie tensed.

            “Just make the joke already, Richie.” He said, his mouth twisting into an uncomfortable smile.

            “No joke here, bud.” Unfurling his hand between theirs, the same scar bloomed into view. “I got a question for you two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. stan was richie's best friend growing up! as much as he and eddie used to hang out, stan lived two houses down so they knew each other in first grade. as a result, stan has a much better tolerance of richie's antics and usually just shuts him down by ignoring him.  
> 2\. eddie just does suck at video games. stan is much better, but richie obviously practiced a lot, especially after he wasn't able to hang out with the loser's club.  
> 3\. stan's eagle scout project was a plant/animal conservation and recycling one. that boy loves the environment.


	5. Filed Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight canon divergence, but in reference to the book rather than the movie.

            Scars—yeah, Stan had a few. A spill down the stairs, a poison ivy rash that he itched too much, one particularly bad gash on his arm from a bird whose nest he had disturbed. None had seemed of any interest until he had Richie staring intently at the matching scars on all of their hands. But Stan had never been the kind to overreact to a situation. Or at least, that was what he had tried to emulate. So all he did was squint, turn his head one way, then the other. “Weird. They look pretty similar.”

            Eddie looked tensely to both Richie and Stan. “So…what? Just a coincidence. Dumb luck or whatever.” He had started to massage his temples with his other hand—the one with the scar was still held near the others, as if kept there by some force. “I can feel a migraine coming on.”

            The serious expression didn’t leave Richie’s face. It was, perhaps, the most serious Richie had ever looked in all the time Stan had known him. “Where did you get your scars?” He started to fumble with his necklace as his eyes met Stan’s. In it was reflected the same helpless knowledge that Stan had, a realization growing heavy in his stomach. I don’t know where it’s from, Stan, but why the hell have we all got it? Why you and me? Why Eddie?

            Composed, Stan. That’s the way you should be, especially when your best friend is freaking out. He swallowed hard, trying to will away the heaviness, dimly aware that their game had been left unattended.

            On the other hand, Eddie was panicking. “Is it some…fungus or something? A bacterial infection?” Eddie’s hand had now started to tap a shaky little three-beat rhythm on his thigh.

            “No, there’s no sort of fungus that manifests like this on the surface of human skin.” Stan waved his hand to the confused look on Richie’s face. “Biology classes. They make you take them if you want to be a naturalist.” He peered closer. “They’re scars for sure.”

            Stan’s thought process was a little bit like a filing cabinet: open one possibility, sort through, find a logical conclusion for it. If they all had the same scars, they were probably all doing the same activity. What would a couple of people their age have done that would have left a scar like that? Bicycle race gone wrong wouldn’t have left such a small scar. Sports based injury was out—Richie had always skipped out on P.E. Woodshop? No. The scar wasn’t uniform enough for those blades. He racked his brain again, searching through those files.

            There is not an accurate way to describe how a memory might come back to you, as it might come back in any number of ways. Slow like water rising. Sharp, like a bolt of lightning. But if Stan were to describe how this particular memory came back, he would liken it to being slammed by the unexpected opening of one of his file cabinets—one he hadn’t thought about in years and years. He saw himself in that memory, his face wrapped up in gauze, maybe recovering from a dog attack or something. Like in a dream, in your body but watching at the same time, this other Stanley Uris picked up a Coke bottle fragment, shining clear in the afternoon sun. The faces of the other’s surrounding him and another boy, whose hair was auburn in that same sun, were like fishes swimming indistinct in murky water. One moment, Richie’s glasses loomed out of the static, the next, a girl with freckles scattered across her cheeks, a boy with a soft smile, dark deep eyes, and then Eddie’s face, much younger, fell back into the dark. He saw as his child hands held the other boy’s, carefully drawing a thin red line down with the sharp tip. He heard the boy hiss in surprise, heard himself as he handed the fragment to him, saying “----, you do the rest of us. You’re the leader, after all.” Saw the gentle curve of this boy’s hand around that glass piece, not even wincing as he took it with the bleeding one, the scarlet already filling his open palm. His voice had no pain as he whispered softly, “A-ah-all-alright Stan. Stan the mm-m-man.” And he sliced Stan’s hand open.

            Richie had never seen Stan cry—or at least, if he had, he had blocked it from his memory. He was the voice of reason, the calm of the storm, the man who, when he dislocated his knee during track, didn’t even flinch. But here he was, a tear dripping down his suddenly distant face, his eyes looking at something long gone. The moment was too strange for words. Didn’t pass even when he thought it should. Instead, Eddie broke the silence with a small sob of his own. For a moment, Richie thought they were under some sort of trance. But one look at Eddie, and you could tell: he was just the kind of guy who cried when other people did. Maybe his heart hurt the same way theirs did.

            Then all at once, that had broken the spell—Stan straightened up, jamming his hand in his pocket. In embarrassment, Eddie swiped his hand across his eyes, looking suddenly like a vulnerable child. Richie retracted his hand and then they were just three teenagers standing in the arcade again.

            In a low voice, Stan spoke. “We were all together when we got these scars.” It was weighted with such certainty and gravity that it was another moment until anyone decided to respond.

            “How?” Eddie’s voice was not doubtful, simply needing to know.

            “I don’t know who else was there. But I cut his hand with a piece of a Coke bottle. He cut mine too—all of ours.”

            “Kind of an asshole move.” Richie tried to bring levity to the situation, but he never seemed to do it at quite the right time. Stan shook his head.

            “No, no. We needed to—we were doing a blood pact or something. As kids.” Stan tried to keep his voice steady, couldn’t quite keep the waver out of it. “I can’t even remember his face. I can’t even remember why we were doing it.” He exhaled. Became that strong man he usually was. “I’m going to look through my old yearbooks or something. I need to know. I’ll…I’ll see you guys later.”

            They both watched as Stan walked out, saw as he broke into a run—trying to make sense of something strange it seemed like only he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's something that's just the truth: all of the loser's club was in some way, in love with bill denbrough. just a little bit.


	6. Nervous Habits

            They decided to drive back to campus instead of doing anything else. The day seemed suddenly so alien, so bizarre. Richie sighed. “We’ll make a better day of it tomorrow.” He shot a glance at Eddie. “If you’re up for it, obviously.”

            Eddie simply nodded. He drove them back in relative quiet, save for his hand that continued to tap that near maddening triplet, _onetwothree onetwothree onetwothree_ , until Richie silently reached over and put his hand on top of Eddie’s. After a moment, he spoke.

            “That’s your nervous habit, huh?”

            “I, uh…yeah.” Eddie felt his face reddening, though whether it was from embarrassment of being noticed or the weird rabbit-quick beat of his heart in his chest he couldn’t tell.

            Richie started to trace little circles on the back of Eddie’s hand. “I used to have a friend who did that too. He’d sweat fucking buckets,” Richie chuckled a little, “But if you just sort of distracted him like this, it wouldn’t be so bad after a while. I think he just got in his own head about things.” His voice was low and soft, not putting on a show—not a trace of pride in it, just a fact that happened to exist. “I used to be the only one who’d see that he was doing it. I don’t think anyone else bothered to pay attention to it.”

            Eddie swallowed. His throat felt full with nameless feeling, something like affection for this loudmouth dropout who forgot his wallet and medication with eerie predictability but remembered how to comfort a child long ago. Managed to stutter out a “T-that’s nice.” _Articulate, Eddie, very articulate._

            “I guess it’s not technically _that_ nice. But I guess if people don’t pay attention much, it’s a nice thing.” Richie smiled, sort of helplessly. “You know, I get that.” Eddie’s heart was hammering hard against his chest.

_I think I’m having a heart attack, Richie, could you grab me another aspirin or something? I need, I need--_

            Richie removed his hand from Eddie’s—not embarrassed, simply aware that his had stopped trembling and now was gripped hard on the steering wheel. Richie was never really embarrassed about anything, it turned out. “I think outcasts like us have to stick together, right?”

            Eddie had sometimes thought of himself as an outcast, that much was true. Couldn’t play sports so he stayed inside while all the kids ran around the track. Couldn’t come up with interesting things to say so he stayed quiet. Satisfactory in conduct, but don’t you think little Eddie could use some friends to play with? Like a forbidden word, friends. Dirty, roughhoused, persecuted Sonia by calling her names behind her back. Dear little Eddie, those friends simply couldn’t be good for you! I know because I’m your mother! And now he was outcast—too close to his mother to ever get close to anyone else.

            As if on cue, Eddie’s pager beeped. He fumbled with it, keeping his eyes on the road, Richie’s question hanging in the air like a balloon. [WHERE ARE YOU? SAID YOU’D BE BACK SOON. NEED MEDICINE PICK UP.] Sonia Kaspbrak typed as if she was writing a telegraph. The only thing missing was a “STOP” at the end instead of periods.

            “Eyes on the road, man.” Richie grinned, suddenly back to joking around. “What kind of chauffeur lets his most prized celebrity fall into danger, hm?” He leaned back with feigned superiority.

            “As if I’d be a chauffeur. And feet _off_ the dashboard.” Eddie parked the car. “I’ll see you around. I got classes all week.”

            “Put me in your pager! I got one too!” He unclipped it from his pants’ belt loop. “ _And_ it’s got a voice recording option. Only about thirty seconds, but that’s enough time to get a good one off!”

Eddie squinted in Richie’s direction. “I don’t really use this often enough for that to make sense.” Silence fell over them again. It was simply too odd to stay together when they both (though they did not know how to say it) felt as if five other people should be there too. “Anyways, are you gonna get in your own car?” He tapped his watch. “Didn’t you say you missed your dose of Ritalin? You’d better get on that.”

            “Right, right.” Richie got out of the car, scuffing the door with his shoe as he kicked it open. “See you tomorrow, Kaspbrak!”

            “I’ve gotta clean that, you know!” Eddie shouted back as the door swung shut. “Dumbass.”

Richie hopped into his car, dug around for the keys in the glove compartment, and popped his pills at the same time. He noticed Eddie, still watching almost in disbelief at his irresponsibility. He waved at him, then tore out of the parking lot, still waving. Eddie waved back for a second. _His parking brake is on. He really is a dumbass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time! college started back up for me so i'm busy all of a sudden, but this is so much fun to write i'm gonna try and keep up with it! also, more book references this time. eddie likes driving but he's not a big fan of basically any celebrities so he doesn't like the idea of being a chaffeur.


	7. A Job to Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another movie canon divergence—Mike’s parents are still alive like in the book. I just don’t like that they orphaned him in the movie when the relationship between Mike and his dad was so important.

            Despite everything, Mike loved Derry.

            He didn’t always love the people in it or the way that they went about things. But if the light was just right, when you biked over the hill before his house, everything would be bathed in a breathtaking glow. He would remember all the languid days in the shade, lying in the grass, watching sunlight dapple the ground through the leaves of the oak. The damp smell of the potatoes newly harvested, the dirt rich and moist. All the ways the wind would blow while he walked through fields with his father. And that was the real reason, wasn’t it—that his dad loved Derry and so Mike loved it too, with all his heart. Every spot he and his father visited was ingrained in his brain as if they were neural pathways themselves.

            That is why Mike never forgot.

            When he came home that day, after that fight in the sewers, after the sick smell of burnt flesh (fear that one day Henry Bowers and his crazy old man would come to burn down the farm) had wafted in his face—he had biked home and told his father every last detail of it. His father had looked at him with those steady eyes that Mike had always put all his faith in. “I don’t know quite what you’re talking about but,” and he clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, “I think you should write it all down.”

            His shelves were full of volumes, both his own and his favorite writers. Howard Zinn sat proudly atop, followed by journals chronicling what Mike had thought important—starting from age 8 up until 18, he was now in the process of writing his eleventh. In a decade of writing, he had not ever seen anything so strange as this.

            How, he thought, how could seven people who were about as close as people could get suddenly begin to forget each other? They had memories, pictures, tangible and real evidence that they had spent that summer with each other. Each of those was carefully itemized, cataloged inside his journal for 1989.

  1. Bottle caps (Coca-Cola and Fanta and one beer that only Bev and Richie tried.)
  2. and stones (too difficult to skip, Stan complained, but enjoyed describing if they were igneous or sedimentary.)
  3. and other mementos (a blueprint from Ben for a dam they never built, one of Bill’s index cards from speech therapy that none of them read right anyways, a picture of Eddie’s cast after they all signed it around the word LOSER.)



            They had fought together. Bled together. Defended each other in that dark and hellish place, then come out the other end united against everything.

            In September, Beverly moved away and it seemed that was the last time they were all together. Each of them had given something to her:

  1. A folded-up piece of paper from Bill who blushed as she took it from his hand.
  2. A postcard with a poem on it from Ben, shyly saying “Come back when you can.”
  3. A pair of binoculars from Stan.
  4. Two comic issues from Eddie.
  5. A (stolen) pack of cigarettes from Richie.
  6. A notebook with Beverly’s name and a list of all the things Mike and Bev had done together, starting with how Bev insisted they help Mike on the day of the rock fight.



            “How did you know?” She asked, flipping through it with a smile, but with tears filling up her blue eyes.

            “Everyone told me it was you. I’m really grateful for you. I’m really glad we met.” And then they all cried and held each other. None of them knowing it would be the last time.

            After Beverly, Bill moved away, the grief too great for his parents to stay in the town their youngest son died in. He had told them all separately, the timing of it never quite right for them to all say goodbye to him. And after Bill, Ben moved away a year earlier than he was supposed—applying for colleges at the same time Mike did, the two of them talking about their scholarly dreams.

            Beverly in Portland, Bill in Ashland, Ben at some architecture school in Virginia. He wrote all of them, called when he could. They had all kept in touch with Mike and each other, a little circle of friends that felt like it needed three more. Mike knew who those three were, but funny enough, when you’re in the same town it sometimes feels like you must live in some other dimension. Like if you turned the corner just a little quicker you could have caught Eddie or Richie or Stan. He couldn’t ever update the ones who moved away on the ones who stayed and Mike was guilty—ashamed that he couldn’t somehow stem the flow of their memories as it trickled away.

            There was a force keeping them apart. A force that grew weaker with each passing year, but had already driven a wedge between them by the time October ended and November began to spread its frost upon the ground. If he ever ran into one of those three, they would wave but pass each other by, their eyes seeing but not precisely who it was. It was because of the town, Mike realized. Not because of Derry, but because It was there and It somehow managed to dull their senses away.

            Accelerated amnesia. Like watching someone’s health deteriorate. As if Mike didn’t have to already watch his father lay there with cancer, their walks getting shorter and shorter until Mike had to walk alone. Mike would cry to his mother, pools forming in his deep dark eyes, asking “Why did this have to happen to me?” And she would hold him close, his chin resting on her shoulder. She would always reply, “Someday, Mike, someday everything bad you’re feeling right now is gonna make you stronger. You’re here to do a job and all this is getting you ready for it. You understand?”

            Now he was nineteen. And now he realized, bringing them back together, uniting them again—that was his job.

            He knew that Stan and Richie had probably kept up with each other, remembered each other by sheer chance of geography. And now, by strange design, Richie and Eddie had met again, as if for the first time. It had a lot to do with if you had kept something of the other—that was what Mike thought the key was. Resolute, he began to pore over his journals, on the search for what would jog all their memories. He tucked his volumes in his arms and moved to the kitchen to use the landline.

“Mike? Did you get my postcard?” Came a voice from the other end. “I hope you liked it—it’s the Arlington Theatre, we got to visit to take architecture notes. I thought was really fascinating.”

“I got it, don’t worry Ben. It was really lovely.” Mike flipped another page of his journal. “Anyways, I’ve got to ask you a favor.”

            “Well, if I can do it, of course I’ll do it.”

            He took a deep breath in. “Can you come back to Derry this summer?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh i love mike so much. they kind of shortchange him in the movie, which is why i like going off the book version a little better.
> 
> he really did keep up with ben, bill, and bev really closely--i imagine he's got a separate set of journals just for memories of their writing back and forth.


	8. True Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for emotional manipulation from sonia to eddie.

      The house was still empty; Richie’s parents still at work, his sister probably tutoring some sucker that had half as many brains as she did. (Guess the brains had to go to someone in the family, ‘cause it sure as hell wasn’t me.) He snagged the landline phone from its dock in the living room and jumped on the couch.

      “Gina! Gina-bean-a, how’s it going?” Richie leaned back on the couch and kicked off one of his shoes.

      “What do you want, Tozier?” Gina, his editor, had clearly been in the middle of a writing session—the irritation in her voice was obvious.

      “Hey, remind me when the deadline for this zine is, Friday or Saturday?”

      Gina sighed. “Rich, you know our deadlines are always on Friday for RR and Saturday for your gaming ones.” Richie toed off his other shoe, practically could see Gina pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know if you wanna get serious about this stuff, you need to remember when those are. Get a calendar or something.”

      Already knowing the answer, Richie asked anyways, “Are you doing anything right now? I’m not busy.”

      “You should be. Finish your stories and send them in.” A decisive click ended the conversation.

            “Okay.” Richie replied to the dial tone. “No problem.” He rolled off the couch, backtracked to deposit the phone in its cradle, and went into his room. It was virtually unchanged from his high school room: a desk with an old Powerbook, papers strewn around it, clothes piled high on the chair, and an electric guitar and amp pushed against his bed. His collection of CDs had vastly expanded once he had a job, now inhabiting a shelf next to his closet. The walls were plastered with promotional posters of musicians. But there were a few blank spaces where, if he had done more things with friends when he was younger, he probably would have put up pictures. Instead, there was a picture of him and Stan on a driveway with their bikes, tucked into the frame of his mirror.

            Richie plucked the picture out of the frame, knocking some of the clothes off his chair so he could sit comfortably. It really had been a long time—this picture had probably been taken in 1986 or something like that. He flipped it over to check.

            Stan’s name was printed in small cramped handwriting, next to Richie’s, a large R followed by almost illegible letters. Underneath, though, was written a name both familiar and foreign to Richie.

_taken by Mike Hanlon, 1989_

            Had he hung out with a Mike Hanlon back when they were younger? (Six years ago wasn’t that long ago, was it?) Did this Mike person know Stan? Richie recalled that Stan’s Bar Mitzvah did have a few faces he hadn’t seen before. But Richie had always been known for his uncanny recall of faces—he sure as hell couldn’t do names unless he came up with a rhyme for them, but he’d never forget a face. Why then, was Mike Hanlon’s escaping him?

            Richie glanced at his Powerbook, a document titled “RR ZINE WEEK 1 JUNE” still blank.

            His eyes wandered back, locked on again to the neat handwriting.

            (Ah, fuck it.)

            There was a sizable _thump_ as Richie set the phonebook down on the kitchen counter—he had never really been interested in using phonebooks as anything but an object to try and rip in half until he started working for Gina. Now he had to do interviews and call ahead of time, familiar with their yellow pages. He traced a finger down the long list of names—Halle, Hallman, Hameldon, Hamm, Hampton, then finally, Hanlon. (Got a farm, I see, haven’t I seen the words Hanlon Farm painted on something?)

            Richie took off his glasses and covered his eyes with his hand. “Think about it, Tozier.” Sometimes he thought better when there wasn’t so much for him to look at, when his brain wasn’t jumping to every little detail he noticed.

            The truck that guy was fixing in the parking lot. With his eyes closed he could see it in his brain, the matte blue finish of it, the white paint fading but still reading out “Hanlon Farm.” The Husson shirt he was wearing, his broad shoulders. That was probably Mike.

            Richie opened his eyes, placed his glasses with their familiar weight on his face. There was someone (other than cute, cute, cute Eddie) that he had to meet with tomorrow.

* * *

 

            The white bag that Eddie brought home from the pharmacy every month crinkled in his hand as he opened it. He methodically placed his mother’s medicine neatly in the cupboard in alphabetical order: _acarbose, chlorthalidone, metformin, propranolol._ Then, he returned to the living room.

            “Why were you late, Eddie?” His mother asked again—a question he had ignored when he had first entered the house. Now, he sat tensely across from her, his hands tightly balled in his lap.

            “I just lost track of time.”

            “Not with that watch, you didn’t. Why were you _really_ late, Eddie?”

            The twisting guilt in his stomach rose like bile. A teacher that reprimanded you in front of the whole class. When you didn’t know what the right answer was, so you guessed and it was horribly, utterly incorrect. The silence that ensued, darkly judgmental. That was what it felt like, speaking to his mother.

            She steepled her hands, the nail polish on her fingers shining wetly. Eddie flinched away from it, the sight of her frustration so tangible. “I was just meeting up with some other classmates.” Halfway between a lie and the truth, _and you’re really good at telling those now, Eddie._

            Her fingers stayed steepled. “You know, you could have called or something. What did I get you that pager for?” He kept his eyes to the floor. “What did I get you that pager for?” She repeated.

            “To keep in touch.”

            “That’s right.” Her fingers curved inwards, her voice taking on a gentler tone. “You know, the things I’m doing for you, I just want you to acknowledge them, that’s all.” She put her hand on his shoulder, still tense with anxiety. “That’s all.”

            “Okay.” Her hand stayed there, squeezing his shoulder and Eddie desperately wanted to flee that overpoweringly maternal grasp. On the television, they spun the wheel and it went around and around.

            “Do you want to watch the rest of the show, Eddie?” She asked, finally relinquishing her grip. “It’s a big one today.”

            That was one of her little phrases, something she said when she meant _you don’t have a choice, Eddie-bear._ He nodded wordlessly, his eyes trained on the screen. She settled back into her easy chair as laughter resounded on the television.

            Eddie finally escaped back to his room after the thirty-minute program had ended, slumping against the door as soon as he shut it behind him. His calendar with dates written on it hung above him, the walls of the room otherwise empty. His desk held books in a row on the back edge, his bed opposite, against a corner next to the window. Unlike some would think, his bed was untidy, the blankets wrinkled up at the foot of the bed. He smoothed them out as he sat down.

            _Gotta be more careful tomorrow_. He lay down and folded his hands, suddenly exhausted by all that had happened—and yet, excited for tomorrow. He thought of Richie and Stan and how good it had been to hang out with them. To belong with them. _Maybe_ , Eddie pondered, _I’ll drive around with them tomorrow and roll down the window._ His thoughts began to blend together with sleep. _And while I’m tapping a rhythm on the radio, he’ll put his hand over mine again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're big gay!!! a little bit of reddie establishing in the interim before we see what's happening with bill, bev, and ben.  
> 1\. richie's younger sister is only two years younger than he is and decently popular, unlike him.  
> 2\. mike carries a little camera with him, like he did when he was younger!


	9. Letters to Home

_October 1989_

Dear Mike,

            Changing schools is weird. Starting over but not really, because you already have a reputation as the new kid. I guess I kind of get what Ben was going through. At the very least, I stopped having the reputation as “Marsh’s kid.” So “new girl” is better.

            It’s a lot harder to steal smokes when you’re in a town like this—I guess it’s a little different than Derry. And it rains a lot more in Portland. I like it when it’s raining, it feels like everything is cleaner and newer. Like it’s really all a blank slate for once. There aren’t any more pictures of my dad around the house, but there are pictures of my mom and my aunt. I wish there were more pictures of all of you that I could put up.

            I’m glad I got to bring my keyboard. There’s a lot of people who like music here too but I miss Richie trying to play guitar. I mean I miss all of you. I know more people now but I miss going to the Barrens with all of you. I keep asking my aunt if we can visit over the summer but she says that it’s too early to think about that.

            Wish we could have figured out something with Halloween, too. It’s only been a month but I guess we never had Halloween together which makes me sad. We’ve all been through scary stuff and we can’t even have a party together and get drinks and hang out in a graveyard or whatever. I think we’re probably fearless at this point right?

            I wanted to know how your school stuff is going, mine’s all boring new girl bullshit still. I sort of wish I was homeschooled but I guess I still don’t know exactly what it’s like. Maybe tell me and I’ll convince my aunt. Ha ha ha.

            By the way my aunt finally set up the new phone, it’s 555-782-1083 so call when you get this okay? Make sure you tell everyone else so you can’t take up all of my time! Haha I’m joking again, there’s no way I’d get tired of hearing back from you guys.

            Talk to you soon.

From,

Beverly Marsh

* * *

 

_April 1990_

Mike,

            You know I don’t think my parents remembered that it was my birthday last month but it meant a lot that you sent a card plus the photos of the chickens. Daisy’s getting pretty big, now isn’t she? Bev and Ben sent cards too, plus a postcard too. Bev wanted to visit but it was a school day so I think we’ll meet up some other time. Hopefully! You three really are my best friends. I basically only got to hang out with Audra that day, but at least we had cupcakes and that was okay.

            I wanted to send something back for you so enclosed find new comics that might not have made it to Derry. I remembered you liked Batman so I sent some of those too. The comic store here in Ashland’s loads better. Wish I could say the same about speech therapy. Thanks for saying I’m getting better all the time but I like writing better. Guess I’m still nervous about talking over the phone. I know it technically takes longer to write, but it feels like ages when I’m speaking and I can’t get the words out right. When I’m writing things seem a little clearer. This is a little embarrassing but do you think I could send you some stuff about a book I want to write? It’s a horror novel about things in the sewers. I guess I’m just thinking about that a lot because it rains here just like it used to when it got stormy in Derry.

            Anyways, when you get this, you can call or write back about all the other stuff that’s going on back there! I know it got a little radio silent back when I moved so please let me know what else is going on back there, okay?

            All the best,

Bill Denbrough

* * *

 

_February 1991_

[phonecall transcript]

BEN: Mike! Mike, hey!

MIKE: You made it there okay?

BEN: Yeah, I’m at Bev’s house. I know I said I was gonna call in the airport but I couldn’t find a phone. That place is built confusinger than I thought.

MIKE: More confusing, as Stan would say.

BEN: Who?

MIKE: Um. Never mind.

BEV: Mike! Mike! Mike!

MIKE: Bev!

BEV: Oh my god, I wish you could have come too! It’s so cool to see Ben again!

MIKE: Yeah, I would have if I liked New Kids on the Block.

BEN: They’re a good band, man! Step by Step sounds amazing!

(Beverly laughs in the background.)

BEV: Aren’t you so glad I moved to Portland so you could come stay when they toured here?

BEN: I would have been really glad if you stayed in Derry for a little longer.

BEV: …Yeah, me too.

MIKE: Get a room, you two.

BEN: Haha.

BEVERLY’S AUNT: Bev, I need to use the computer, can you get off the phone?

BEN: Oh, we’ll call for sure and tell you how the concert is! But we’ve gotta get off the phone for now.

BEV: We love you Mike!

BEN: Talk to you soon!

* * *

 

_June 1995_

            “I’ve got my own car now, of course I can come back, Mike! I was sort of planning on it.”

            Mike, still flipping through pages of his journal, cradled the phone against his shoulder and his ear. “I don’t mean to pull you away from your job, Bev. It’s just…it’s an—!”

            “It’s important, Mike, and we’ve been friends for how long? It’s a summer job. I don’t mind!” He heard her zipping up a bag.

            “Are you…packing up now?”

            “ _Obviously_.” She laughed. “I’m coming down straightaway.” She paused. “Well, I’ll pick up Bill, and then we’ll be there in like, two days.”

            “It’s a whole different coast—are you gonna be driving safe?” Mike’s eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to hurry too much.”

            “I’ll be alright!”

            “Bev?”

            “Is…Ben’s coming back to Derry too, right?” There was a note of hesitation in her voice, the sound of someone trying not to get their hopes up too high.

            “He said he’ll be here.” Mike smiled. “And you know that Ben’s never broken a promise.” He could almost hear Beverly grinning over the phone.

            “All of us, back together again.”

            Finally, Mike had found it—a picture of all seven of them. Back then, he had balanced his camera on the back wall of the garden at the farm, ran as the timer went off. He slung his arm around Stan, the other around Bev, and smiled wide into the lens; the summer sun bright and hot like a copper penny in the sky, the sky cloudless and blue and perfect, like that photograph, seven kids who were best friends.

            He held the photo up to the light. “Yep. All of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated some tags!


	10. Bird Watcher

            “Call me this time, okay?”

            “Okay.” Eddie tapped his foot impatiently.

            “And don’t stay out too late.”

            “I know.”

            “I’m going to be staying late at the office today, so your food’s wrapped up in the fridge. And don’t stand in front of the microwave. I just read that they can cause--!”

            “Yeah, cancer, I know. You showed me that article, Mom, I’m going to be late, I need to go now.”

            “I love you, Eddie.”

            He was already halfway out the door. “Okay, yes, I love you too!”

            Eddie was never reckless with his car—it was his pride and joy after all, having spent most of his high school career fixing it up and listening to Chicago over the radio alarm clock they stored in the garage. But impatience and excitement thrumming in him made him hit the gas as soon as the light turned green, pulling into Derry Community College with a whopping twelve minutes to spare before class started. As he parked, he furtively took a glance at where Richie’s car had been parked the other day, only to find it disappointingly empty. _Figures that he wouldn’t be here this early_.

            “Looking for someone?” Richie rapped on the glass of the passenger door, which Eddie reached over and unlocked.

            “Where’s your car?” Richie shut the passenger door and immediately began reclining his chair.

            “Asked my boss Gina to drive me. I figured you’d be driving me around all day today, so I thought I’d save myself the trouble of driving myself home at the end of the day.” He put his hands behind his head. “After all, I’ve got my personal driver!”

            “Well, I hope you came up with a plan for us to do something.” Eddie reached back for his backpack. “I’m gonna be in class until 11:30, so you’ll have a lot of downtime.”

            “Actually, I’ve got a favor to ask of you. Do you know the Hanlon farm? I wanna visit there.”

            “Don’t tell me you write a zine on farms too.” Eddie looked sideways at Richie. “You know, I actually want to hang out with you, not just help you do work.” He brought his hand away from his mouth, realizing he had been biting his nails. “I don’t want to just be friends ‘cause I can…drive you around or whatever.” He finished lamely.

            “Hey, hey, it’s not like that!” Richie slapped him on the back. “No, see, I like hanging out with you too!” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I just think there must have been a reason that he recognized us and I think the answer might be there. Do you know someone named Mike Hanlon?” Richie uncrumpled the photograph from the bottom of his messenger bag and handed it to Eddie.

            Eddie’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “Not really. But that guy yesterday did have a car that said Hanlon Farms. He said we should meet up.” Richie nodded. Eddie’s watch beeped. “Shoot, I gotta go to class right now.” He started to get out of the car, then leaned back in. “Wait, do you actually have anything to do right now?”

            Richie pulled his Powerbook from his bag. “Yeah, I promised Gina I’d finish this up by the end of the day in exchange for a ride.” He shrugged. “I’ll probably be done once you’re out.”

            Eddie tossed his keys at Richie, who dropped them. “Nice catch.”

            “I have depth perception problems!” Richie said, feigning offense. “Now go to class, dummy.”

            “Good luck with the writing.” Eddie slung his backpack and turned away, walking briskly towards his class.

* * *

 

            Mike had carefully arranged the photographs and his journal into his bag, tucked safely behind Howard Zinn and Ralph Nader. He meant to take the truck, but after yesterday’s debacle, decided on riding his bike. The sun had not yet begun to transform the fields into too-bright shades of gold and the whir of bicycle spokes whistled through the summer air.

            He stood up on the bike as it reached the downhill slope, thinking of the reunion of all seven of them, the anticipation of it making his heart beat faster. Then, he hit the brakes and smoothly turned into the parking lot of Derry Community College.

            As he walked his bike to the stands, he noticed him—a tall, but not gangly man, pacing back and forth in front of the lot, his dress shoes shining in the sun. As he turned around again, Mike caught the face of Stan Uris.

            A pang of sadness hit Mike. For a while, Stan used to come over to the Hanlon farm to birdwatch. They would sit together in the tall grass, Stan’s binoculars practically glued to his face, Mike looking around only half as much as he would look at him. Enjoying each other’s quiet company. Sometimes he would ask Mike to help him with algebra, even though they both knew that Stan was already almost as good as Mike with math. Then, Mike would lean in close to Stan’s elbow, pointing at formulas or taking the pencil from Stan’s hand, their fingertips brushing. But Mike was still homeschooled and Stan was already enrolled in Derry High, so eventually their schedules just didn’t match up anymore. Eventually, they just didn’t see each other anymore.

            “Waiting for someone?” Mike asked casually, wheeling his bicycle into the stand and locking it. “Classes are starting pretty soon, you might not catch them right now.”

            Stan blinked in surprise. “Actually, I just caught him.” He took a deep breath in. “Mike, I remember you.”

* * *

 

            Richie had done a good amount of work (three pages was a _lot_ to do in one sitting for him) before he had closed his Powerbook and decided to scout for their mystery man. He walked along the perimeter of the parking lot, counting red cars and looking for the beat-up blue truck.

            As he walked around the next corner, he spotted the unmistakable silhouette of one Stanley Uris. His hands were buried in his pockets, his normally straight spine bowed by the weight of—something. (Embarrassment? Awkwardness? As if Stan’s ever _not_ awkward!) Richie’s focus shifted to the other party that Stan was talking to.

            Lo and behold, oh Susannah, there he is! Mike Hanlon, in the flesh! Richie almost ran over, almost called out to the both of them—but decided against it. While Richie certainly did not always know when to keep his mouth shut, a couple months of investigative journalism taught him to just observe things every now and then, without commentary.

            “—I just, I just recognized you. I was looking through all my yearbooks and I couldn’t find you. But I found this.” He held, with a trembling hand, a cornflower blue feather. “How did I forget that we used to watch birds together? How…”

            Mike gently took Stan’s hand in his. “Don’t worry about it, Stan. I’m just glad you remembered me. There’s…well, there’s a lot of things we’ve forgotten.” His eyes were shining wetly, his cheeks suddenly aflame with color. “Soon enough, we’ll meet with everyone else. But maybe for today…we could spend time together?”

            Richie felt it was probably the wrong time to pop out and say, “Hello my jolly fellows, top of th’ mornin’ to ya!” Instead, he slipped away quietly, back to Eddie’s car. Soon enough…so he decided today, he would spend his time with Eddie instead. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise—who needed to solve mysteries when you had such a good-looking guy to hang out with? (The good-looking guy being Richie of course, although Eddie wasn’t so bad on the eyes either, haha.)

            As he closed the door gently, he slumped. Three pages down, two to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, a short chapter this time 'cause it's more setup. expect some Good Reddie Content coming up though cause they have a whole day to spend together


	11. Television Static

            Eddie parked the car in the small and empty driveway of the Tozier household. As he turned off the ignition, Eddie looked at Richie. “So, what makes you so sure that we’ll be talking with them soon?”

            “I just know, Eds, trust me on this one.” Richie slung his messenger bag over his shoulder as he exited the car. “We get a day off on being the Mystery Machine or whatever, so let’s have a good one, okay?”

            “At your house?”

            “Party central, my friend.” Richie unlocked the door. “Mi casa es su casa, darling.”

            Eddie stepped in, toeing his white shoes off and apparently ignoring the pet name. “Party central is awfully quiet.”

            “Parents are at work, sister’s at school.” Richie tossed the explanation over his shoulder as he bounded down the hallway. “This one’s my room.” He opened the door and shoved some clothes behind it.

            Eddie caught up and leaned against the doorframe, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Your room is disgusting.”

            “It’s called living the free life, babe. Take a seat wherever.” Eddie’s eyes roamed the mess on the ground and he eventually sat on the desk after clearing a few papers off. “So, which do you like better, Super Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back or Super Mario Kart? They’re both super.” Richie waggled his eyebrows.

            “Is all you think about games?”

            “Nothing better on a lazy Monday.”

            Eddie’s mouth turned up at the corner. “It’s Tuesday, Rich. Besides, you don’t want to take a walk or something? It’s nice outside.”

            “You sound like a grandma. Everyone knows the best place to stay when the sun is shining is inside.” Richie shuffled through his collection of video games. “How about Robocop 3?”

            “Let’s do something we can play together?”

            “You’re right.” Richie pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I don’t want to watch you totally blow my scores. Let’s just play Super Mario Kart so I can beat you at it.”

            “As if. Where’s your SNES?”

            “In the living room—hey!” Eddie had hopped off the table and was running full sprint out the door.

            “Race you to it!” Eddie called out from the hall. Richie grabbed the box and dashed after him, laughing.

            The two of them tumbled into the room, Eddie leaping and crashing onto the couch, Richie splaying himself out on the floor, the box upturned. “No fair, you got a head start. For being so small, you’re way too fast.” Richie puffed in fake exhaustion. “You know, I think I’m too delicate to run.”

            “And I’m asthmatic. No excuses.” To punctuate, Eddie waved his inhaler. “How do you turn on your TV?”

            Richie hit a button and banged the top of the television twice. “It’s kind of old, so it’s not great at doing pictures, but it sounds good.” There was a slight hum, the colors fading in pinkish and green.

            Eddie came up next to Richie, kneeling slightly to get a good look at the screen. “Did you put a magnet up to this or something? Or did you leave it on for too long?” Richie thought of all the nights he fell asleep with the TV on and grinned sheepishly. Eddie inspected the television closer. “You just have to degauss it.” Eddie clicked another button on the front a couple times and a loud _thunk_ resounded, the colors and screen settling in place. Richie’s eyes widened.

            “Eddie, you’re magic! I didn’t even know that was something you could do!”

            “The option’s right there.”

            “No more green Mega Man! No more pink Samus! I could kiss you! In fact,” Richie used his Transatlantic accent, putting an arm around Eddie’s neck, “I think I shall! Kiss you, I mean!” He pulled Eddie closer and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

            “I—you—huh—what?” Eddie sputtered, his hand flying up and pressing against his face. “Richie!” The same desperate feeling, his heart fluttering against his chest, straining against his lungs. Not like needing a puff on his inhaler, but feeling breathless all the same. In the background, the television buzzed, the static no longer colorized.

            “Sorry, sorry!” Richie leaned back, seemingly unbothered. (In truth, his heart leaping against his chest.) “Let me load up the game.” He leaned against Eddie carefully, his right shoulder just against Eddie’s smaller one, slotting the game into the cartridge.

            “You have another controller so you can play with your sister?” Eddie asked, plugging it in.

            “Uh-huh. Amy’s actually really good at Super Mario Bros. But she’s too good at school to be a deadbeat gamer like I am. She’s a cheerleader, too.”

            “I’d assume from the trophies.”

            “Yeah. She’s applying to NYU and all these other out-of-states.” Richie hit start, navigating almost subconsciously through the menu screen. “She’s brilliant.”

            “I kind of wanted to go out of state too. I got rejected though. Maybe if I’d done track I would have gotten to.”

            “If you hadn’t stuck around, maybe you wouldn’t have met me.” Richie bumped him, friendly. “But seriously, you strike me as the academic type, Kaspbrak. Otherwise you wouldn’t be taking summer classes, right?”

            Eddie laughed, hardly more than a brusque exhalation. “I’m catching up. I never wanted to be a business major, so I’m catching up with summer classes on journalism.”

            “Better to catch up than fall behind.” Richie gestured to himself. “I mean look at me. I’m not even in school.”

            “But you’re happy doing what you’re doing, right? That’s better than me.” Eddie’s gaze lingered on Richie. Observing, the curve of his hands on the controller, the strong lines of his arm, the way his shoulder was pressed, _somehow electric and comforting at the same time,_ against his own. “But I guess at some point we’ll both figure it out.” He bumped Richie back playfully.

            As Eddie’s eyes returned to the television, Richie chanced a look at him—the soft smile on his lips, the way his dark brown eyes reflected the light back, looking like little stars. “I guess so. Now,” Richie cracked his knuckles, earning a look of disgust from Eddie. “I’m gonna show you _exactly_ what power sliding looks like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> richie: gotta gay. i mean gotta go  
> eddie: ?!?!?!??!??!?!


End file.
